Glossary of Potentially Unfamiliar-to-the-Western-Ear Terms:

Aranmula: the Keralan village that has become my new home. The Vijnana Kala Vedi Cultural Center, where I’m staying for the initial 3 months of my trip, is situated here.

Chai: Indian term for tea, also the Indian concept of tea—chai starts off in the same way as would your standard cup of tea. Then heaps of sugar and cups of creamy milk are added to the brew. Always tasty and typically served steaming hot in a petite glass cup/a giant shot glass.

Churidar: a knee-length tunic worn by women (mostly the younger population—more elderly women tend to wear saris) in India. Worn with pants and accented with a shawl called a dupatta

Dhoti: a long swath of fabric, most often white but frequently printed with stylishly colorful floral designs, worn by most of the men around Aranmula. Like the sari, this piece of fabric is precariously wrapped, but only around the waist so it resembles a skirt. Or the full-length skirt-like dhoti can be folded and tucked in half so as to resemble what I’m sure my brother would call, “an adult-sized diaper.”

Kallam: (formally known as kallam-eruttu) yet another traditional art form unique to Kerala: something of a Hindu version of Tibetan sand mandalas, these devotional drawings make use of multi-colored rice powder to depict Hindu deities. These elaborate powder paintings take many hours to create and only a few seconds to destroy. They are created and subsequently destroyed as part of pujas or Hindu ceremonies.

Ghat: riverbanks, usually with a set of stairs or an inclined platform leading down to the river. The riverside ghats are quite happening places: along with the temple, the banks of the Pampa are a hub of activity in Aranmula. So what exactly happens along the ghats? People gather, most often in the hours surrounding sunrise and sunset, to bathe, to do laundry, or just to hang out. At first this aspect of Aranmula life seemed to me quite inviting, and it still does as an observer. I was a bit turned off by ghat-side bathing and laundry when I discovered that the sewage of the upriver town of Kozhencherry flows straight into the Pampa.

Kathakali (pronounced Kah-tah-kah-lee): THE traditional art form of Kerala, a form of drama and dance done in Hindu temples, codified roughly 300 years ago. Performances are often commissioned as offerings to a specific Hindu deity and the actors go ahead with the performance regardless of whether there are human spectators or not—the gods are always watching. The average Kathakali presentation begins around 9 PM and will finish up by 5 AM the next morning. Needless to say, the dancers and the musicians accompanying them need to have a lot of stamina. The movements of the dance are relatively slow moving and stately, combining body position, facial expressions, and mudras (hand gestures that carry significant meanings). Actors are dressed in elaborate costumes and their faces are painted to correspond with their character (the hero’s face is always green, the villain is customarily red and black). The stories performed are typically taken from the Ramayana or the Mahabharata (although I was among the audience witnessing the first Kathakali performance ever based on a Bible story: a Christmas-week Kathakali-rendition debut of the birth of Jesus.)

Karnatic (Music): traditional Hindu devotional music, South India style. I started by studying karnatic vocal music and soon after was able to graduate to karnatic violin.

Kerala: a state situated on the southwestern tip of India, the paradise in which I’m spending the first three months of my trip.

Malayalam: the state language of Kerala. Supposedly Malayalam has one of the most complicated syllabic alphabets and grammatical structures of the world’s languages. The term “Malayali” refers to a Malayalam speaker, or in other words, a person from Kerala.

Mudras: hand gestures carrying significant meanings in Indian (mostly Hindu, also Buddhist) arts, both visual (like the mural painting I’m currently studying) performing (commonly used in Kathakali). Yoga makes use of mudras, too.

Sari: most common attire for women around Kerala, consisting of several yards of fabric wound around the waist, tucked into an underskirt, and typically draped over one shoulder (for someone unfamiliar to sari wearing, all these folds and drapes and tucks tend to feel rather precarious). Worn with a tight matching blouse that reaches around the bottom of the ribs. Sari fabric is often brightly colored, but the distinct traditional Kerala-style sari is off-white with gold edging.

Sabarimala Temple Festival and Pilgrimage: Sabarimala is a famous Hindu temple and pilgrimage site located less than 100 km from Aranmula. Dedicated to Lord Ayappa, the son of two male gods Vishnu and Shiva (yes, but the legend of Ayappa’s birth isn’t that messed up: Shiva was at the time assuming his inherent female form, Mohini) and one of the most fervently-followed members of the Hindu pantheon here in Kerala (Ayappa was born in the state of Kerala to take care of a evil sorceress type who was supporting the rule of a terrible tyrant), the temple holds a 41-day festival every year that pilgrims from around Southern India flock to by the millions. This is the most significant pilgrimage site in Kerala, drawing over 4 million annually. But by far mostly men: menstruating women are not allowed to enter the Sabarimala temple. Over the past month, I’ve seen 1000’s of pilgrims (and only 3 little girls and one old woman among them), distinguished by their distinctive attire: dhotis of black or orange (considered sacred for being the colors that show the dirt of Kerala’s roads the least), typically bare feet, and a package carried on the head containing a coconut filled with ghee and other items to symbolically sustain them on their spiritual journey.

Tharayil: the name of the house I’m living in during my stay in Aranmula. Virtually every house I’ve seen around Kerala has a name: strangely, unlike all the other signs and things to read around here, most of the house name’s are written in roman script instead of Malayalam.

Vijnana Kala Vedi (a.k.a. VKV): a cultural school in a Keralan village called Aranmula, the wonderful place where I’m spending the first 3 months of my adventures in India. If you can find the map of India somewhere on this horrendously long blog page, you can locate Aranmula and VKV on the subcontinent’s southwestern tip.

Wallah: a Hindi term for someone who sells a certain good or service. A guy selling chai (tea) is the chai-wallah, someone selling snacks is a snack-wallah, a man soliciting rickshaw rides is a rickshaw-wallah.

Periyar, a.k.a "Tiger Land." "Please pray for chocolate!" Ganesh finally finished. And more...

Kallam Puja:

Concept of artistic creation prevailing in the Western world: an artiste will often spend hours upon hours in the process of producing a masterpiece. But only if the product is something that will last for eternity.

Contrasting Eastern concept of creation: an artist can spend hours upon hours completing a work of art, only to destroy it, sweep it away, set it afire. After all, the nature of life itself is imbued with impermanence.

Beginning around 9 AM and finishing over 12 hours later on the eve of New Year’s Eve, I had the blessing of being able to see a group of Keralan kallam artists and students fashion from colored powder five enormous elaborate drawings of five Hindu deities on the floor of a local family’s private temple. Kallam (formally known as kallam-eruttu) is yet another traditional art form unique to Kerala: something of a Hindu version of Tibetan sand mandalas, these devotional drawings make use of multi-colored rice powder to depict Hindu deities. These kallam masterpieces took roughly 12 hours to complete, only to be destroyed thereafter, all as part of an offering or puja to praise and appease the family’s patron Hindu deities.

Early in the morning on the eve of the Eve, I joined a group of students from the center in boarding a twosome of taxis for a drive to Ambalapuzham to witness the kallam puja. The invitation to this unique event came to us courtesy of Miren (a painter from Spain)’s kallam teacher: a renowned regional master of the art form, Mr. Gopa Kumar and his father are commissioned each year to conduct an extravagant puja (ceremony) in this family’s private temple.

The journey brought us through the Keralan countryside. Around the backwaters. And over a wide river—taxi and all—on the Little Ferry That Could (a tiny rickety-looking boat that all daylong transports hundreds of people and hordes of vehicles across the river, while a bridge whose construction apparently began over a decade ago sits half-finished and crumbling closeby). We arrived in Ambalapuzham, stopped for a visit at the city’s temple, and proceeded to the family’s temple, where the extended family—and now we as well with a warm welcome—had gathered. A solo singer was serenading the crowd karnatic-style while the kallam artists prepared their materials (adding some concoction containing lemon juice to the tumeric-colored yellow powder to turn the powder red).

Shortly, the artists were ready to begin. But the powder painting didn’t begin without ceremony: in the temple’s inner sanctum, the artists sang and banged on various percussion instruments while the father and son masters donned special dhotis and prepared five offerings—tables covered in colored cloth and offerings of coconut, rice, bananas, and a collection of other items—and offered prayers to the five gods the ceremony was to be dedicated to. Then, the process began and the larger-than-life figures of the five gods slowly began to materialize on the floor. Slowly materialize.

Beginning with Kali (a wrathful female deity who was here portrayed with a green face and ferocious-looking fangs), each drawing began by the master skillfully pouring the powder from his hand to form the face and then the body and lastly the background, while his assistants filled in the details. Crouched on the cement floor, the karnatic singer’s voice acapella voice echoing around the temple all the while, the kallam artists worked like this for hours.

Apart from a mid-day break for a delicious and elaborate Kerala-style thali meal (served on banana leaf with rice and a dozen or so dollops of side dishes—chutneys and curries and pickles and paisa (sweet rice pudding)—each with a distinctive flavor, combining spicy and savory and sweet), the kallam creators nonstop. Every so often, a large crowd of family and neighbors would gather, soon after losing interest and trickling away. But at least for Miren, Manuel and I, the novelty didn’t wear off so quickly. Watching the speed and skill with which the figures and details were drawn, yet how painstakingly slow the process was. Nearly nonstop we watched.

Until, alas, as the sun was setting, it was time for our group to return to Aranmula. Bidding farewell to the artists, who now appeared to be scrambling to finish the last kallam before sunset, and to the family, who had treated us as honored guests all day—offering us endless cups of chai and ceremonial sweets and an amazing meal—, I climbed into the taxi (my knees slightly sore from hours of crouching beside the kallams in progress—I can only how the artists knees hold up during 12 hours plus of kneeling next to their work…) feeling extremely fortunate to have experienced this.

Long after we left, the team of kallam artists continued to work, carefully finishing their colored powder creations. Later we were told that past 9 PM that evening, a closing ceremony was conducted, following which all 5 kallams—and the hours of work they represented—were swept together into a nondescript mountain of brown powder.

At long last, finished with Ganesh!

“Not more dots!?!” I’ve heard many a mural painting student moan when Anil, the VKV painting teacher, tells them that their paintings need more shading. In this traditional form of Keralan mural art, the gradual light-to-dark gradation is achieved not by a method as quick and simple as a watercolor wash or an acrylic blend. No. Instead, thousands of minute, virtually microscopic dots. This time-taking technique is typically used just for shading the skin of the figures, but the entire process of completing a mural painting is no less laborious. Many students seemed to find this meticulous attention to detail exasperating. But for those of you who know me and my artwork (it once took me two years to finish a drawing of Gandhi-ji), that kind of perfectionism melds well with my artistic style.

That same sense of perfectionism also appealed to Annie. A woman from France who had never touched a paintbrush before coming to the center (for what was originally intended to be a couple-week stay) and has since been living here for the past 5 years, spending most of her waking hours doing mural painting, dozens upon dozens of diminutive dots and other painstaking details with the aid of a magnifying glass. Some may find this painstakingness a pain in the bum, but for Annie, Anil (our painting teacher), and myself, it is a form of meditation. A frustrating form of meditation at times. But, for a person with patience, quite Zen-like in nature.

For over a month, for two hours plus every day, I would join Anil and Annie and Miren (a painter from Spain) on a balcony-overlooking-the-rainforest classroom where the four of us would meditate over our paintings. After I don’t know how many hours of this meditation (about 6-weeks worth of classes and time outside the class on top), I finally finished my painting of Ganesh, or Ganapathi, the elephant-headed Hindu deity. And, I must say, I’m rather pleased with my work. Well, I should be after spending so much time on it.

I suppose I should explain the basic process of Keralan mural painting. First, a drawing is done in pencil on the surface you plan to paint on. Traditionally, this surface would consist of a wall treated with asbestos. But for our purposes—because 1) a wall doesn’t exactly make a good souvenir and 2) inhaling asbestos isn’t especially wholesome—watercolor paper is used. And instead of the traditional natural pigment paints ground from minerals and plant substances, we use tubes of watercolor paint. Once the drawing is complete, the student is told to trace the pencil lines with yellow paint. Then to go over the yellow lines with red lines. Why, I don’t know. As I’ve come to see with a month and a half’s experience with instruction in traditional Indian arts, in the course of the centuries over which these arts developed, much of the meaning behind why certain things are done—like why yellow line comes first and is followed with red line—is lost in time as the craft makes its way from one generation to the next. And the typical Indian student, from what I understand, never questions the guru’s (master’s) teachings.

Afterwards, certain surfaces—the depicted deity’s dozens of gold jewelry, for example—are filled in with several coats of an ochre color. The ochre ornaments are then shaded with red. Thankfully not by red dots for this step. From there, the progression of the painting depends on the subject, but usually any greenery is painted ochre also and then shaded green, or red. The figures are coated with a lighter color and are shaded—here’s where the beloved dot technique is put to use—with a darker color. My Ganesh was painted yellow and shaded with red. His mount, a humongous rat, was painted red and shaded with black. While I’m aware of the fact that this style of art isn’t exactly based in reality, I had a bit of an issue when Anil told me matter-of-factly, “This Ganesh rat, paint red.”

“Why red?” I attempted to ask. (This would surely have earned me a reprimand were I an Indian student asking this.) But he didn’t understand my question and took my hesitancy to mean I didn’t understand his instruction. So he pulled the painting and the half-a-coconut holding my red paint towards him and proceeded to slop my giant rat with red paint.

Once all the surfaces are filled in and shaded with the correct color (well, correct meaning the color tradition and teacher tells you is correct), the original outline of the artwork is gone over with thin black line. I must say once the unsettling redness of the rat was tempered with some shading in the form of thousands of black dots, it looked more palatable. After all, I had to keep in mind, when taken in the context of a god with the head of an elephant whose vehicle of choice happens to be this giant red rat, a red rat on its own isn’t all that unusual.

Art Exhibition:

It probably would have taken me at least a week longer to complete Ganesh—get all his giant rat’s dots done and the black outline in place—had I not had the incentive of completing my first mural masterpiece for a student art exhibition. Devised and organized mostly through the efforts of Miren (una artista espanola—a Spanish artist, who has been in India for almost 6 months absorbing ideas from the nation’s myriad art forms to incorporate into her own artwork), this student show was apparently a first for the school. And I was invited to contribute my painting and/or some photography. Provided my painting was finished by then.

As the day of the art show opening approached, I spent increasingly more of my free time painting dots, lines, and other details to complete Ganesh. I also had a series of large prints made of my best photographs. Miren’s contribution consisted of four paintings that she’d completed during her four-month stay at VKV and a collection of colorful geometric patterns rendered in marker inspired by the architecture around Mysore. Annie, the French woman who’s called Aranmula home for the past 5 years, installed 18 amazing artworks—a fraction of the body of work she’s built up during her time here. My comparatively pathetic collection was delegated to a revolving a column made of skeletal metal poles, which, trying to be creative, I covered in a spiral colorful shawls. Subsequently, I attempted (with moderate success) to pin my paintings and photos into the fabric. A crazy albeit creative revolving tower of fabric and art.

The last contributor was a different type of artist than us painters and photographers. Andy, a man from Seattle whose profession (making flavored butters for farmers’ markets) and passion is centered around cuisine, is an expert in the culinary arts. And an extremely talented artist at that. He spent over a week preparing an elaborate menu of hoer d’oeuvres for the exhibition opening.

Between the art—both fine and culinary—and the television crew from CNN India that so happened to be visiting that day, the opening turned into quite an event. The day of, all morning I spent scrambling to put the finishing lines and dots on Ganesh. Following my violin class, I ran to the school building (where the exhibition was already underway), pinned my moment-ago-finished painting to complete the display on the revolving tower, and enjoyed some excellent artwork, edibles, and company (while trying to avoid the television crew).

“Please pray for chocolate!”

The New Year’s festivities were already a week in the past at this point, the charred remnants of the firecrackers that heralded in the New Year with a bang growing soggy on the sides of the roads, when was told by Sumitra (a member of the VKV staff), “a parcel has just arrived for you, from the U.S.A. But before you come pick it up, I ask you to pray that there’s chocolate inside.” When I peeled off the layers of tape that sealed the box from the Trepper’s (Thank you two SOOO much!!!), I saw that Sumitra’s prayers had been answered. The care package was filled with a collection of treats, sweets (chocolate among them), fractured candy canes, little toys for local children, and more baby wipes than I know what to do with. And alas, Scotty, the shot glass arrived too late to be used for the New Year’s party, but it was certainly a good laugh nonetheless. The package was much appreciated by me and the staff and students and children around here as well. So a big THANK YOU to Scotty and Mrs. Trepper! Nandi! Dhanyavaad!

Two days after the pleasant surprise provided by the Trepper’s parcel, I received a call from Sumitra with some more exciting news. “Melissa, you are a very lucky girl, another parcel arrived for you today. Again I am praying that there is chocolate inside.” When I arrived at the office to pick up my second holiday care package, this one from my parents and Aaron, Sumitra was waiting for me. She pulled out a pair of scissors so I could open up the box right then and there. As I stood in the office snipping tape with the scissors, an audience of eager staff members gathered around, waiting to see what was inside (and what, if anything, I could share with them).

Again Sumitra’s prayers were answered. But I only unearthed the chocolates and other candies after pulling out the 2 bulky 4-packs of toilet paper. My audience and I were quite amused. That was bloody quite a lot of toilet paper, and, I’m afraid to say, there’s no way I’ll be able to use all of it while I’m here. Toilet paper is one commodity that is amply provided at VKV: someone of fastidious as Sarah (the Scrooge of VKV) might tell you otherwise but I’d say we live like royalty here at the school, all things relative. But I’m sure it can come in handy while I’m traveling in the North—if I want to lug 8 rolls of the stuff around the Himalayas. Well, it was certainly a good laugh if not extremely useful… I’m glad I had plenty of people willing to share the M & M’s and other goodies with me. The package from my parents and the parcel sent by the Trepper’s arrived within two days of each other, so even though by that time it was after New Years, it felt like Christmas all over again.

Periyar Wildlife Preserve, a.k.a. “Tiger Land”:

Observation from a day in the Periyar Preserve (one of the larger nature preserves in India and billed as the best place to see the elusive tiger): the Indian tourist’s concept of eco-tourism is far different from that of the typical Western tourist’s. In the States, when visiting one of the U.S.’s numerous vast National Parks, regardless of how crowded the park is, the individual tends at least attempt to seek out a secluded spot to enjoy the splendors of nature in solitude. In India, where the sometimes stiflingly dense population means seldom a moment to be truly alone, the idea of a pleasant visit to a nature park seems to be in the midst of multitudes.

My Seattle-ite friend Andy and I enjoyed a 4-hour trek through the exquisite forest- and fog-blanketed, lake-encircled mountains of Periyar in the company of 3 Israeli backpackers and an Indian guide. This trek option is open to all comers. However, in the meantime, all the Indian park visitors opted to cram onto a fleet of double-decker ferries for an undoubtedly loud and crowded 2-hour tour of Periyar’s waterways. Because, for whatever reason, the ferry ride appealed to them over the trek. After all, the burrs and brambles bordering the trail could spoil an unsuspecting sari or dhoti.

After spending the past 3 weekends in Aranmula—one for the Christmas holiday and related festivities, one to relax and recuperate after the crazy Christmas weekend and a hectic subsequent week, and one to be here for the New Year (I’ve heard that New Year’s weekend, as is the case in the States, is not a wise one to be traveling)—I decided to jump on an invitation to accompany Andy from Seattle on his trip to Periyar. Before the break of dawn, we were off on a rickshaw to Chengannur to catch a 6:45 AM bus to Kumily, the city sprawling along the edge of the Periyar Preserve. Apparently, this bus doesn’t actually exist, but luckily we had a backup option. A two-part bus marathon: Chengannur to Kottayam, Kottayam to Kumily. Arriving in Kottayam shortly after 7:30, we inquired when the next bus to Kumily would depart. 7:45. Time enough for a quick cup of chai, we figured. The chai-wallah brewed up boiling hot chai, poured it in a pair of flimsy plastic cups, and handed us our scalding-to-the-touch chai. Just as the bus began to pull out of the station. We ran after it—the burning beverages leaping out of their cups to trickle down our hands and clothes all the while—and boarded the departing bus just in time. While wiping the chai from my hands and arms and watch, I glanced at the time. 7:40. This must be a first: something in India actually happening ahead of schedule.

As we settled into our seats on the rickety state government bus—this bus looked and felt as though it could potentially fall apart at the next pothole—Andy and I realized that it was probably a good thing that all we had in our stomachs was half-a-cup of chai. Any bus ride in India is comparable to a horizontal roller coaster ride, and as our bus began to journey inland towards the Western Ghats (mountains running along the western coast of India and forming the eastern border of Kerala), this fast-paced case of crazy driving turned into a bona fide roller coaster ride, minus the upside-down bits. On a barely two-laned road hugging the contours of the increasingly high and steep mountains, buses and cars and trucks and rickshaws fly without speed limits. Screeching around hairpin turns so that a vehicle coming in the other direction would pass within a foot of the bus. This perpetual melee is further complicated by the swarms of pedestrians (mostly pilgrims), livestock, and cyclists also on the roads. Every so often, our rickety bus would pass (usually within an outstretched arms length) a fancy Christian owned bus (the private owned buses are typically quite classy—all things relative) with a slogan on the front like “Gift from God.” I pondered for a while over the potential meaning of this puzzling phrase, and decided that it must be lacking a prelude, “Every safe arrival is a… Gift from God.” And a conclusion, “Not a gift from the driver of this vehicle.”

Despite the potentially petrifying nature of our bus journey, I was entertained the entire time, by the crazy driving and by the unfolding of the exquisite landscape: coastal jungle criss-crossed by canals became foothills draped with rainforests and rubber plantations which soon turned into the tea plantations, mountainside meadows and woods of the Western Ghats.

Between the speed and the breeze it created compounded by the coolness of the mountain air, I realized something: I felt chilly for the first time since coming to Kerala. While my family and friends back in Indiana are slushing through snow and braving below 30 degree F weather, I’ve gotten used to these tropical paradise temperatures and a sultry 80 degrees daily. So even though the high elevation nippiness with the wind chill was probably only about 60 degrees, goose bumps grew on my dupatta- (shawl) wrapped arms.

Countless close calls and several hours later, Andy and I arrived—unscathed—In the city of Kumily. Our first mission: to find accommodations so we could unload the excess clothes and books in our backpacks and use a bathroom. Once this mission was accomplished—we found a lovely yet low-priced lodging in a 2-storied yellow-painted palm-thatched hut with a balcony overlooking a wildlife-filled field with a forest backdrop—we had some lunch at a halal restaurant (Muslim form of kosher—Kumily seemed to have a significant Muslim population) for some scrumptious sustenance in the form of chicken biriyani (chicken with spiced rice) and fish curry.

We then went to rent a pair of bikes for a several kilometer trek to check out one of the many mountainside spice plantations around Periyar. Unfortunately uphill most of the way on a snake-like road. But fortunately lovely landscape all around to take our minds off the strain. And, as a delightful diversion on the way, we tarried for a time—along with a sizeable crowd of gawkers, all Indian men (I’ve noticed that there seem to be a lot of men around here with a lot of free time on their hands)—to watch an elephant lifting some logs from the roadside.
There were plenty of plantations along our route but we settled for the first we came upon. As we dismounted our bikes, a man from the plantation approached and asked if we’d like a tour. That was what we’d pedaled half way up this mountain for. But, he assured us, he wasn’t offering us just a tour. A “very informative tour.” By which he meant we follow a girl my age around a garden as she pointed out various plants while reciting a script in English from which she would loose track and begin again from the beginning should anyone interject with a question. After delivering the section of her spiel that corresponded with the plant we were currently considering, she would individually ask each member of our group—Andy and I plus a woman from Taiwan and an Italian man—“You understand?” She was suitably impressed when I replied with one phrase from my pathetic 30-word Malayalam vocabulary: “Manisalaayi,” meaning “I understand.”

The “informative tour,” though not exactly what we’d paid for, was interesting—as I was familiar with many of the names of these plants and the spices derived from them but had never actually contemplated how they’re grown—and entertainingly charming. As we made our way from the plantation and back towards town, everything went downhill. Literally speaking. And there was much rejoicing. On our bikes we explored more of Kumily and the surrounding area—trying to avoid more steep hills but not succeeding—and then returned to our yellow hut to relax and read and watch the setting sun paint the backdrop of sky pastel shades of orange and pink behind the fields and forests and mountains visible from our balcony vista.

The next morning, we rose before the sun and trekked through the twilight—and a thick blanket of fog—towards Periyar. Supposedly, or so says the Lonely Planet, the early morning hours are the best for seeing wildlife. Although also according to the 2005 edition of the Lonely Planet, the park entrance fee would be 150 rupees for non-Indians (roughly $3.50 U.S dollars). The previous day, we’d found out that conveniently just after the newest edition of the “Traveler’s Bible” was published, the price was raised to 300 rupees. Not steep by U.S. standards, but being backpackers on budgets, Andy and I agreed that we should spend all Sunday in the park, see all we could, and maximize our one-day visit. So before sunrise, we trekked into the park to reserve a spot on the 7 AM morning trek.

A couple kilometers into our pre-trek hike, through a dense veil of fog that filtered the feeble daylight of early sunrise, an immense gray figure loomed out of the trees and mist in our midst. “Is that an elephant?!?” Andy asked. Sure enough, it looked like an elephant. We stood staring its massive silhouette. The massive silhouette stood staring back at us. Completely motionless. Motionless? A cautious closer look in the increasing daylight exposed that this unmoving elephant was actually a cardboard cutout. Painted and positioned to appear from afar to be a real elephant. “Probably the most exciting wildlife sighting we’re going to have all day…” Andy and I joked.

The trek we had to make to the departure point for the official guided treks was longer than we’d anticipated and we arrived a bit belatedly but a l’heure, Indian time. So while the Indian tourists were clambering for seats on several crowded ferry boats, Andy and I stood in a short line comprised primarily of Western tourists waiting for tickets to do the trek. A good half hour later, around 8:00, the two of us in the company of 3 Israeli backpackers hitched up our complimentary leech-proofing legwear (we were all given tall tan socks to keep leeches from crawling up our legs) and headed out on our hike. On a half-submerged bamboo raft, the trek leader ferried us across a channel of the Periyar Reservoir. Once on the other side, our group followed our guide through the still fog-filled forest of ancient-looking towering trees, along the lake, across streams and marshes. ‘Even if we don’t see any wildlife,’ I reflected, ‘the environment in itself is exquisite enough.’

Only in India would the park ranger leading a nature hike ask for a 5-minute break, not for the welfare of winded Westerners, but so he could take a piss and have a smoke. After the 5-minute break, we followed our nature-conscious guide further into the forests, up and down a web of barely-worn trails, stopping several times to observe birds (one of the Israeli women had a hefty pair of binoculars and seemed an avid birder) and—each time I couldn’t help wondering how much this guy drank the previous night—four additional times for a potty stop.

“Trek almost finish,” our trek leader told us as we were nearing the rickety raft again. By this point, after 3 and ½ hours of hiking, our morning’s most exciting wildlife sightings consisted of a bright turquoise kingfisher and a whole lot of leeches (which the Israeli women stopped periodically to pick off their shoes and stylish leech-proof stockings until our guide anoint each of our feet with tobacco powder, afterwards amiably asking if any of us wanted some of the stuff to snort). In the last half-hour of the hike, however, we encountered a giant black squirrel, a toucan-like hornbill, and a trio of black monkeys.

Shortly before noon, we returned to the nature center, peeled off our leech-proof socks, and went to the park café to check out their lunch menu. A very limited selection but, for a pair of hungry hikers, good enough. While discussing the morning hike over a dosa (a lentil and rice flour crepe) and a plate of egg curry (consisting of a hard-boiled egg resting on a stew of spicy vegetables) I mentioned that, wildlife-wise, I was most excited by the monkey sighting. A minute or so later, as Andy was at the café counter waiting for another cup of Nescafe coffee, a mother monkey pounced upon my table, snatched the rest of my dosa and a little bag of spiced peas and nuts I’d bought to snack on, and retreated to the treetops to gloat and gorge on her prized peas. I’m guessing that there are more moocher monkeys in the trees surrounding the café than in the entire rest of the park.

As Andy and I stood in line for our lunches and tried to avoid the harassment of the mischievous monkeys, we became acquainted with an interesting couple: a retired ex-Microsofty ex-pat named Michael from Andy’s hometown of Seattle and his arranged marriage Indian wife named Shiny. The two of them had just opened up a new restaurant on the outskirts of the city and were here in the park advertising their new endeavor. After spending the rest of the afternoon in Periyar (the boat ride aboard a small motorboat—not the packed double-decker ferry—whose passengers consisted of the Andy and me, the Israelis, and a relatively rowdy group of students from a Christian secondary school, was more rewarding wildlife wise. We saw a monitor—a giant iguana-like lizard—, a herd of wild boar, numerous deer, some water buffalo, and the highlight: a wild elephant), Andy, excited by the promise of potentially authentic pizza, persuaded me to join him for dinner at Michael and Shiny’s Shanti Garden restaurant.

Shortly after Andy and I stepped out for an almost 3 km walk to the restaurant, one of the worst downpours I’ve seen since coming here was unleashed upon us. We broke down and hailed a rickshaw. As the auto was trundling uphill towards Shanti Garden, we sat soaking in the backseat fantasizing over how heavenly it would feel if the place had a campfire we could dry off and warm up beside (24 hours earlier, sitting in a sultry puddle of sweat in Aranmula, I never dreamed I’d be wishing for a roaring fire again…). But to our surprise and satisfaction, an inviting fire awaited us. As the only customers of the evening, we were able to sit right beside it to dry our drenched clothes and warm up while Andy’s pizza was being warmed in the brand-new brick oven.

For Andy hailing from the metropolis of Seattle, with access to a different ethnic cuisine on every street corner, coming to India and craving dietary variety beyond daily curries and chutneys and rice (a pizza, for example) seemed nothing unnatural. But for someone from the less ethnically diverse, less metropolitan cornfields of Northwest Indiana whose constant craving for Indian cuisine is only appeased twice or thrice a year during a trip to Devon Ave. in Chicago, coming to India to order a pizza is absurd. I’ve been here about two months and there is absolutely nothing about my Western diet that I miss (well, except perhaps for fresh fruit smoothies…). Why pass up on authentic and appetizing Indian cuisine to have instead a mediocre Indian attempt at pizza? (Andy and I had an extensive yet good-natured argument on this topic). The Shanti Garden chefs were surprised when I said I’d prefer Indian food to a pizza or BLT. They didn’t even have their Indian portion of the menu printed yet.

So as Andy’s pizza and my chicken curry were being cooked, the real adventure of the evening—our conversation with the owners—began. Shiny—apparently part of a famous musical family—after discovering that I was just beginning my study of karnatic violin graciously helped me expand my knowledge of karnatic music after showing me an album of the talented family: her father the renowned flautist / tabla player and maker / harmonium artist; her several brothers (each of whom specialize in a different musical instrument); her adopted 10-year old son already a budding vocalist. In the midst of this, she generously offered her brothers’ services for the next day to give me a private music lesson.

In the meantime, Andy was having a chat with Michael. About how this formerly millionaire Microsoft employee ended up almost broke while attempting to start up a restaurant in Southern India. Apparently, this unexpected twist of fate had something to do with his two channeling gurus, a grand spiritual quest, the death of his first wife, and writing a book about it all. (I’ve found that these sorts of spiritual quests are what draw a lot of flaky foreigners to India). But on top of the (to Andy and me) wishy-washy mystic mission, though, this guy had some interesting stories: after being kicked out of Australia for giving illegal massages on an expired visa, he came to India, married Shiny after seeing an arranged marriage ad and checking out their compatibility not with his future wife but an astronomer, took an attempt to adopt his illegitimate son-in-law all the way to the Indian Supreme Court, and beat up the head bully of Kumily city with a fanny pack full of rocks. Wow. While dinner itself was decent (if a bit pricey by Indian standards), the dining experience was well worth the expense and the trip through the thunderstorm.

As I fell asleep to the sound of squirrels and other critters crawling over the palm-thatched roof, I was looking forward to the music lesson the next morning. What I didn’t realize at the time was that Shiny’s brothers, whose musical skills and teaching services she so generously offered me, had no idea he would be teaching a class in the morning and stayed up all night playing at a puja (Hindu ceremony) to bless a group of Sabarimala pilgrims (followers of the cult of Lord Ayappa one can see everywhere around South India this time of year, undertaking a pilgrimage to see the sacred site of Sabarimala during the temple’s 41-day festival).

So when Andy and I arrived at the humble home of the “Kumily Music Family” the following morning, all members of Shiny’s musical family—apart from her elderly mother and 10-year old adopted son—were sleeping. Once the brothers were aroused (which took a while—the mother offered us all chai in the interim) and told that some Westerners were here for a music lesson, they entered into an extensive what sounded like an argument (although many a conversation in Malayalam sounds like an argument) about what they could teach me in a just two hours.

Andy was finding all of this amusing (having had experience with Indian families and their sometimes somewhat incompetent communication/planning skills while staying with a friend of his in Delhi) but I, who the brothers would turn to every couple minutes with an incredulous comment in raised voices and broken English along the lines of “You come here and wake us up and what do you expect us to teach you about the complex art of karnatic music in a couple hours when you haven’t even brought your instrument?!?”

After enduring several such jibes from the sleep-deprived musical brothers—they seemed to perceive me to be some flaky foreigner who thought I could learn karnatic music in an day—, for the first time since I came to India, I began, inexplicably, to tear up. Then the brothers looked at each other in concern. “But no bringing instrument or instruction book… Why you coming here?” I explained again, this time through stifled sobs, that I was just beginning my study of karnatic music, I went traveling for the weekend not knowing I should bring my violin, and it was at their sister Shiny’s suggestion that I came here.

“Ohhh. Shiny.” They looked at each other significantly, like that explained all, realizing for the first time how I’d found my way to their home to pry them from much-needed sleep this Monday morning. After some further less argumentative-sounding exchanges in Malayalam, they decided to put on a mini-concert for us. Sprawled out one the dirt floor of the “Music Room,” one brother picked up a bamboo flute while another tuned up a set of tabla and a third grabbed a karnatic percussion instrument called a “khadam” that could double as a clay pot. (The other brother sat on the sidelines looking sleepy and sulky).

They—well, the three that were awake enough to perform for us—put on an outstanding private concert for us. Despite being deprived of sleep, the brothers’ music was brimming with liveliness and the music, in turn, seemed to bring the brothers to life. The tabla player’s hands were a blur, the flautist’s fingers were flying, and the clay pot player was pounding and slapping the stiff surface of his instrument like there was no tomorrow. The formerly sleepy house and its sleepy inhabitants came to life. And my senseless sobs disappeared to be replaced by a broad grin that went on to last the whole day. So, as Andy pointed out, my crying was clearly effective. He mused that perhaps he’d try that technique the next time he was bargaining with a particularly rigid rickshaw-wallah. “I don’t know if it will have the same effect coming from you,” I said.

Christmastime in Kerala

Christmastime in Kerala:

In the midst of a tropical rainforest—with over 70-degree (Fahrenheit) temperature daily—, in the midst of a predominantly Hindu population, with palm trees instead of evergreen trees, and most glaringly with none of my family around to spend this time with, I found it a challenge to get into the holiday spirit. Though this environment didn’t exactly evoke the same festive feelings as my environs in Indiana (every year without fail a white Christmas, all the hype surrounding the holiday seasons, decorating the family Christmas tree and Christmas carols playing constantly in the background), this was certainly the most memorable and out-of-the-ordinary holiday season ever.

I’ve mentioned that there is a surprisingly significant Christian population across the state of Kerala. As you might imagine, the Christians of Kerala celebrate Christmas quite differently than its observed in the U.S. For lack of evergreen trees, some families decorate different types of tropical trees: there is a Kerala-style Christmas tree set up outside the office building here at VKV—a bamboo-like bush decked out with lights, metallic garland, and colorful cardboard stars.

The cardboard “Christmas stars” are certainly the most common holiday décor around Aranmula. Some of them sport slogans like “Happy Christmas”, others are printed with patterns I associate with Christmas and some of them are filled with flashing colored lights, but the most of them don’t appear—to me at least—to have the least bit to do with Christmas. Regardless, they are rather festive. These stars are being sold in shops everywhere this week, and to help add some (more palatable) color to my pastel green and brown room, I bought a blue and yellow holiday star decorated with stylized butterflies. This is now hanging in the midst of my posters of Sarasvati (Hinduism’s patroness of the arts and learning, my favorite member of the Hindu pantheon), Vishnu (the preserver), and Gandhi-ji.

As for what traditions the Indian Christians of Kerala have around this time, I don't rightly know because the community I'm living in is mostly Hindu and I haven't yet met any Christians. But every bakery--even the Hindu-owned establishments--is filled with special Christmas cake, which is eaten by Hindu and Christians alike. Almost every home in the area has a little decor in the form of giant elaborately-decorated "Christmas star." Some houses have strings of flashing lights hung out front. For the past week, Aranmula has been serenaded every night by a traveling troupe of high school guys singing and drumming down every block in town until at least midnight. During the course of the week, they stop in front of every home with their drums and voices booming until the family inside gives them some rupees to go away or until the boys are fed up by a lack of response. And on Christmas eve, I'll be attending late-night mass at a local Catholic church, not out of any devoutness on my part but more so curiosity to see what an Indian Christmas eve mass is like. Then on the evening of the 25th, the school staff will be preparing a special Christmas feast for us. A lovely and certainly for me a unique holiday!

Around 11 PM on Christmas Eve’s eve, the traveling percussion troupe passed by Tharayil. I, who was watching a movie at the time and who was thoroughly amused by this curious collection of carolers, made the mistake of opening the door to get a better view. After they saw that brief sliver of light flash from our doorway, the drummer boys swarmed past our gates and stood outside the house making a delightful racket for the next 5 minutes. Delightful depending on your outlook: Sarah, an elderly woman from London and a relatively new resident of Tharayil house (she would undoubtedly take the roll of Scrooge in our Kerala Christmas Carol), attempted to drown out the drumbeats with her complaints. I was tempted to go give the group of guys some rupees—I’ve heard that they oftentimes don’t go away until someone inside the house they choose to serenade gives them a bit of cash—but Sarah and Rosella held me back, certain that the troupe would surely return to Tharayil every night that week if I did. So we all stayed inside, I enjoying the pulse of the rhythm and the cadence of the off-key chanting, Sarah obviously not, until the boys became bored by our secluded stinginess and moved on to the next house on the block.


Kathakali Christmas Story:

One afternoon, the rhythm of drums fused with the clang of bells and gongs drew me to the school building, where a Kathakali play was being rehearsed. I peeked inside the makeshift theater and was invited to sit and spectate, becoming the only female and only student among the crowd. Gathered on stage was a motley posse of sweaty, shirtless, dhoti-clad Hindu guys. Acting out the story of the birth of Christ. This was, supposedly, the first-ever Kathakali play based on a bible story. And a few days later, I was in the audience of its debut performance.

The evening of the debut turned out to be quite a big event. It was held, contrary to original plans (initially scheduled to take place in some far-away resort that was asking an exorbitant price 3710 rupees per person—close to $100—for tickets, the debut was, after some arm-twisting and use of influential contacts on Louba’s part) right in the school building at VKV, where I’d seen the same play rehearsed a few days before.
Before the performance began (it was scheduled to start at 6:00, but 6:00 Indian time really means at least a half hour later), made my way through a swarm of journalists and television crews to watch the makeup application and costuming progress. A husky Hindu guy with hairy hands and a unibrow was being transformed into the Virgin Mary. Joseph’s face was bright yellow. This Biblical couple was decked out like a pair of Hindu deities and laden with layers of elaborate Indian-style golden jewels. Two of the three kings and King Herod were done up like a typical Kathakali hero: with green faces and broad, umbrella-like skirts. As I watched these preparations with interest and amusement, I was laughing inside to think: what would be the reaction of a provincial-minded conservative Christian taken from their cocoon in Indiana (or elsewhere) to see this Kathakali performance in India and told that this posse of Hindu men were supposed to be portraying Biblical characters surrounding the birth of Christ?

So at 6:00 India time, I took a seat on a straw mat just in front of the stage. The program was preceded by, as are most Kathakali performances, by a synopsis of sorts chanted in Sanskrit (this New Testament story was actually translated into literal Malayalam, which is similar to Sanskrit) to the accompaniment of a quartet of percussionists. The official curtain, a colorful tapestry held overhead on either end by men whose arms would begin to droop after a few minutes, was tossed aside to reveal Mary and Joseph. The unlikely man cast as the Holy Virgin that I described earlier made a magnificent Madonna. Between his soft features and feminine expressions (and an impressive make up job) the guy was a natural.

This interpretation of the story of Mary and Joseph and the birth of Jesus—costumes and chanting aside—progressed pretty much along the lines of your standard Christmas pageant. Until King Herod came on the scene and started grunting as he danced around wielding a sword. The Kathakali Christmas story culminated in the nativity scene, with all the actors (apart from Herod) gathered around to admire the Christ child as a baby doll dressed in swaddling clothes.

Hands down the best rendition of the story of Christmas I’ve ever seen. Somehow, these Hindu men—with their wonderfully outlandish and thoroughly Indian costumes (that any conservative Christian would have been horrified to see used to portray any Bible character), Mary with his/her hairy hands and this classic New Testament tale translated into Sanskrit—imparted more meaning into this story than all the habitually disastrous Christmas pageants I’ve seen in the U.S.

Christmas Eve Dinner:

For the first weekend since my arrival in Aranmula, I decided to stay at the center. So did all the other students. That way, this global family of sorts could spend Christmas together. Throughout the week leading up to the Christmas weekend, conversations among the students—breakfast, lunch and dinner—would tend to center around what each member of our mini international community would typically do around this time of year in their home country. Whether from Germany or Sweden, Spain or Italy, the Czech Republic, England or the U.S.A., everyone was missing their holiday family dinner.

So as the weekend of the 25th approached, we (well, mostly through the efforts of Brit from Sweden, being a take-charge type of woman) began to put together some special plans: Christmas Eve dinner. Around Aranmula, away from home and family, at the nearby (dubiously) respectable establishment of the Park Hotel. We made reservations for a “family room” in advance and arranged for 3 rickshaws to take the 9 of us there in the evening of The Eve. Earlier on The Eve, Andy, a man from Seattle, arrived and despite being Jewish we insisted he join us for Christmas dinner. This extra person meant that I ended up in the lucky rickshaw in which the 4 most slender among the students had to cram in back. On the way to the Park Hotel, I was tempted to strike up a round of “Jingle Bells” with words changed to suit the India surroundings: something like “Rickshaw Horns…”

We climbed out of the fleet of rickshaws and were led through the other rooms of the hotel (which was, as we had speculated, a glorified bar) to the “family room” (which every night of the year is most likely filled with parties of drunk Indian men—I doubt any woman had entered the establishment after 5 PM in a good while). By 7:30, we handed our server our order in written form, to facilitate the process and avoid confusion. Between then and the time our food finally came at 9:30 (I expected this would be the case—I’ve adjusted my internal clock to Indian time—and was much more amused by this delay than a certain Scrooge who went at one point to yell at the servers and was subsequently told that the food would be ready at 11:00), we passed the time by chatting and singing Christmas carols and—at one point when we were becoming desperately hungry for our dinner—playing a couple rounds of charades.

So, at last, once the food was carried in and the plates of curry and tandoori and masala and rice and naan (North Indian flat bread) were passed around, the savory smell of Indian spices filling the “family room,” this Christmas dinner with an Indian twist tasted exquisite. At my end of the table, we were sharing curry prawns, tandoori chicken, garlic gobi (gobi is comparable to cauliflower) and paneer (Indian cheese) and, no offence to the excellent chef who does most of the cooking around the holidays back home (I do miss your cooking, Dad), I think this was the most delicious Christmas dinner I’ve ever had. Between the banquet of incredible Indian food, the company of international travelers, the sultry Keralan weather and the groups of Indian guys getting drunk outside our “family room”, this was certainly for me the most extraordinary Christmas Eve ever.

Christmas Eve Mass:

Not out of any devoutness on my part but more so out of curiosity, I accompanied Rosella from Rome to the Aranmula Catholic church’s 11PM Christmas Eve mass. The two of us left the Park Hotel shortly before the others to make it to mass in time. There was no rickshaw driver waiting for us outside, as Rosella had arranged. But there were plenty of rickshaws in the parking lot. All the drivers inside drinking. So the hotel guard found the least drunk among them and dragged the guy outside for him to drive us back to the school. We made it safely from the hotel to the school, then from the school to the church. As Rosella and I followed a rugged road and blaring music up to the hilltop church, our rickshaw driver found a place to park, curled up in the back of his vehicle and fell asleep.

Outside the cozy hilltop church, Christmas carols—thoroughly Indian-style tunes that bore no resemblance to any Western Christmas songs—were blaring. Inside, there was no sign of a priest but the place was packed with people listening to the music. The congregation spilled over around the chapel’s walls while Rosella and I stood for a while along the fringes of the crowd. Listening. Observing.

I was surprised by the disparity in the proportion of men vs. women within: a postage-stamp-sized square in the far back corner of the church seemed to be reserved for men, while the rest of the interior—over 7/8ths of the space—was filled with women, who were constantly fixing their saris and shawls so their heads were covered (this seemed to be proper decorum while within the church). So where were all the husbands of these women? Out drinking, I presumed. We’d probably been amongst a few of them at the Park Hotel. I later found out from Rajesh that my presumption was probably correct: he informed me that Kerala has the highest alcohol consumption of any state in India.

Seconds after Rosella and I had gathered the courage to enter the church, as several old women sitting near the rear were beckoning us to do, everyone inside rose from the scratchy straw mats stretching across the floor that served as a substitute for pews and began to file outside. ‘Did we do something offensive?’ I wondered. No, it turned out, or at least that wasn’t why the congregation walked out as soon as we walked in. They went outside to watch the procession of the priest and altar servers carry a statue of Baby Jesus from the nativity down the hill into the church.

We stood inside, found a spot on the floor to sit for the subsequent mass, and—heralded by a fanfare of fireworks—watched as the procession and spectators flowed into the church. The Christ child in his crèche, carried by a priest in vestments of hot pink and gold, was placed in a nativity near the altar. Just below a life-size statue of Christ on the crucifix affixed to a backdrop of the apocalypse: a blood-red sunset, lightning scorching the skies, a graveyard in the distance. This image of Jesus and the statue of Virgin Mary before the altar were both encircled by strings of flashing lights.

I was taking all of this in—and fixing my dupatta (scarf worn with a churidar) so it covered my head—when the congregation rose from the floor and began singing an exquisite joy-exuding Malayalam Christmas song, to the accompaniment of an extremely tacky synthesized recording (which made the organ at my family’s church in Indiana, by comparison, sound angelic). From there, the progression of the mass followed for the most part the same general structure as a Western Catholic mass. Apart from the fact that it was all in Malayalam.

Despite the fact that I couldn’t understand anything being said apart from a word here and there, I found the mass meaningful and meditative. Surrounded by a crowd of Malayali women in this cramped, close-quartered church. Sweating while the fans overhead spun speedily so no one in the congregation passed out from the harsh heat of this Christmas Eve. Sitting, kneeling and standing on the scratchy straw mats. Facing the priest in his oh-so-spiffy vestments, Mary and Jesus in their circles of flashing colored lights in front of the mural of the apocalypse. While the synthesized song accompaniment resounded from the loud speakers. If I couldn’t be with my family for this evening, this was the next best place for me to be.

Despite the overall tackiness of these surroundings, a sense of community prevailed.About an hour into the mass (it was a bit past midnight at that point), firecrackers exploded just outside the church. This went on like machine gun fire for over a minute. My theory: to keep the congregation from falling asleep. This happened two other times before Rosella and I left, shortly before communion at 1 AM. As I was falling asleep around an hour later, I could still hear the Keralan Christmas carols being blasted from the church’s several speakers, occasionally accompanied by sporadic spurts of firecrackers. Happy holidays to everyone in India, Indiana, and everywhere in between!

Trivandum Trip and Other Exploits...

Trivandrum Trip:

Trivandrum (increasingly known by its tongue-twisting un-Anglicized name, Thiruvanantapuram—say that five times fast), as the capital of the state of Kerala, is quite the metropolitan city. All things relative, that is. I saw only a few cows roaming the chaotic roads. The ratio of dhoti-clad to trouser-clad men was nearing 1:1 (in Aranmula, its relatively rare to see a guy wearing pants). I actually spotted one stoplight. And our troupe of foreign travelers attracted far fewer stares than we’ve become accustomed to.

For the first full weekend of December, I traveled to Trivandrum with a group of 3 other VKV students: the Spanish painter Miren, Manuel also from Spain, and Rosella from Rome. Before the 4 of us converged in Kerala, none of us had met. But despite hailing from all across the Western world, it felt almost like traveling with family. And apparently it appeared that way, also, as a few Trivandrum inhabitants we encountered asked how we were related. My 3 companions were traveling to Trivandrum on a mission: Miren to catch her flight to Sri Lanka, Manuel and Rosella to hit the bookstores (Trivandrum is supposedly the best place in Kerala to buy books). I went along to explore the city, see some sights, and check out the bookstores while I was at it.
Initially I thought I’d attempt to nap during 2-and-a-half-hour train ride (keep in mind this was the week of the karnatic music temple concert that lasted until 1 AM, while the previous night I had been watching Kathakali until midnight), but the captivating sights on the train and out the window prevented any sleep for me. The train pulled into the Trivandrum station, we found a hotel nearby, and afterwards headed directly to the bookshops. It was well past lunchtime when we emerged from the last bookstore on the list (all 3 we went inside were considerably cramped, piled to the ceiling with books supposedly organized into some system indecipherable to us) bearing plastic bags laden with our new treasures.

After a bit of lunch (masala dosas—crepe-like pancakes with potato-tomato curry filling—one of my many favorite foods in Keralan cuisine), our next stop was a government run warehouse selling Indian crafts. I made no purchases there—the government-set prices were a little high even by Western standards—but it was fun to look. Dinner that evening was a feast of fish (we like to get our weekend protein fix) and rice. Afterwards a stop for chai at the India Coffee House, a bizarre circular building with tables set into an ascending spiral staircase.

We awoke to rain the following morning, but headed out early (Miren was on her way to Sri Lanka at that point) for a visit to the famous Vishnu temple of Trivandrum. Non-Hindus are not allowed inside (as inclusive as Hinduism is regarding the acceptance of holy figures from other religions as gods and goddesses in the Hindu pantheon, the religion is, from what I’ve seen, quite exclusive and almost inaccessible to non-Hindus) but just to see the ornately carved towering spires of stone from the outside was impressive. The Trivandrum Park, which contains a lovely garden with several museums and a zoo interspersed among the stretches of greenery, was our next destination. We arrived at the park shortly after 8 AM only to find that, contrary to the information in the Lonely Planet (seen by many of my fellow students as the traveler’s bible), everything was closed until 10:00. So we wandered the gardens during alternating drizzle and downpour until the museum and art gallery opened. Both had impressive—albeit poorly preserved, organized and lit—collections of Indian art and artifacts. I was excited to discover in the gallery a room filled with traditional Keralan-style temple mural paintings. I had to squint through the darkness to see them, but I was thrilled to get a chance to see such an extensive collection of the art I’m studying nonetheless. After a leisurely lunch of fish curry and some more exploring the sites of the city (including the capitol building which is built in a stark and unmistakably Communist kind of style--since the creation of the state of Kerala in 1956, Communists have occupied high places in the Keralan state government...), we caught an afternoon train from Trivandrum to Chengannur.


Kathakali makeup session:

Between 2 morning tabla lessons, I returned home to practice and found at the bottom of the stairs leading to my room a Kathakali makeup session was under way. The center’s 2 Kathakali teachers sat there, chewing paan (something of an Indian version of tobacco) and spitting sporadically out the window while one was painting the other’s face. Similar to the typical Kathakali hero look, green was the base color and other details were added on top. I was invited to watch and asked if I could help them by taking some photos when they finished. I was honored. I sat with them at the foot of the stairs and watched the whole process of makeup and costuming. As part of a typical Kathakali ensemble’s finishing touches, the actor added a certain type of seed under his lower eyelid: this, within minutes, turns the eyes red, which supposedly enhances the appearance of the actor. When they were done and the actor was completely transformed into one of Shiva’s sons, I led them outside for the photo shoot.